The issue is self-belief

It is another cold, grey morning as we make our way through the Bourke Street Mall. Dressed in blue jeans, windjacket and beanie, Allan C (he wouldn't give us his surname for a multitude of reasons) clutches a plastic bag of Big Issue magazines in one hand and a polystyrene cup of instant coffee in the other.

Near the GPO on Elizabeth Street, Allan takes a sip and nods behind us at a young Big Issue vendor already at work. "I taught him how to spruik," he says. "When he started he'd just stand there. I told him to say, 'Arts, entertainment, culture, grouse stories.' He sold 40 copies that day and I only sold five."

The 42-year-old has been selling the Big Issue for seven years. His many regular customers ensure things keep ticking over when times are tough. And, in the past, times certainly have been tough for Allan. He was sexually abused as a child, stabbed as a 20-year-old, has been addicted to drugs: and he served two stretches in Pentridge and Long Bay prisons. But Allan is adamant. He is not a victim, but a survivor.

We arrive at his "pitch" on Bourke Street just after 10am. Allan spreads out his long arms. "This is my home," he jokes, and dons the mandatory fluorescent yellow vest and ID badge. The temperature drops a notch and a cold wind whips up the hill through the trees. It's time to go to work.

Allan explains how to sell the magazine to different demographics. Men over 25 he calls "sir" or "gentlemen" while younger "dudes" will get the "How you going", "wicked" or "sick" treatment. For Kooris the Big Issue is always a "deadly mag".

Within five minutes, we already have our first customer. A middle-aged, well-dressed businesswoman listens patiently while Allan explains a theatre play he is about to appear in about Big Issue vendors.

Soon after, Paul, a regular customer, stops by to rib Allan about his photo in the latest issue of the magazine. As business picks up towards lunchtime it becomes clear that almost everyone seems to know Allan and he manages to offload nine copies in 30 minutes.

During a lull we sit down for a chat over a coffee about life as a vendor and the upcoming play, which is called Sweet Dreams. "I reckon I've used every drug known to man," says Allan, "but the buzz I get out of the show is better than anything I've ever, ever had."

Along with four other vendors, Allan, the most amateur of amateur thespians, will appear onstage in a production based on individual stories of abuse, drug addiction and the strength required not to end up a victim.

Produced and directed by Nadja Kostich and Jeremy Angerson (winners of a Green Room Award for their play The Grand Feeling in 2002), rehearsing the play has been a journey for all concerned, and unexpected mayhem is never far away.

"At first I felt like the rug was being pulled out from under us all the time," says Kostich. "But then we realised, the rug has been pulled out from (the vendors) all the time. So, we used that in the performance. At times it's been stressful, at times exciting, and at times it's been just bloody hilarious."

Although Allan is the first to admit that selling the magazine has helped him keep on the straight and narrow, he doesn't like the stigma of being called a Big Issue vendor. Sadly, it is not unusual for him to hear "bludger" or a "beggar" spat at him in the street. While he yearns for the security of full-time work, his tattoos and prison record makes it hard to attain. In the meantime, the sense of community and solidarity he has on his pitch keeps him going.

Allan recounts how one day two guys were hassling him for his takings. Within seconds office workers and some people from a nearby cafe arrived on the scene. "They asked me if I was OK, and then one guy said to them, 'If you hassle Al you hassle us'. I've never seen two guys run so fast."

This kind of support and friendship means a great deal to Allan. "A lot of people respect me and care about me. They know I'm trying to stay out of jail and they just know I'm trying to do the right thing."